


Thrice

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neck Kissing, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: It only ever happened thrice.





	Thrice

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the prompt: "things you said with my lips on your neck."

It only ever happens thrice. 

*~*

Anatole’s breathing stutters and halts. He laughs and clings to Dolokhov’s shoulders, his face half-buried in Dolokhov’s hair. “Not here. We’ll be seen.”

Dolokhov mutters something noncommittal and doesn’t make any attempt to actually move. He continues to kiss a line over Anatole’s chin and then down to his neck, sucking gently on the boy’s Adam’s apple. Anatole squirms and bucks forward. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Devil take you.”

“Hmm?” Dolokhov continues to kiss Anatole’s neck, dragging his tongue over the soft, unblemished skin, feeling Anatole’s trembling, knowing that his protests are not to be taken seriously. He always says the same thing: _God no. What if someone sees._ But they have long established that Anatole is perfectly happy to flirt with that danger. It excites him, makes his nerves prickle. He flushes and Dolokhov can hardly keep control of himself at the sight. 

Anatole arches forward and squirms as though undecided as to whether he wants to prolong contact with Dolokhov’s mouth or get away from him. The sensation is overwhelming – it sends lightning blasts through him and Anatole cannot stand still. His knees go week and he slumps back against the wall behind him. Dolokhov continues to kiss his neck. 

“Damn you. Damn it,” Anatole gasps. “I love you. Bloody hell. I love you.’

*~*

“Freezing to death isn’t helpful.” Dolokhov throws the fur coat over Anatole’s shoulders. Snow instantly gathers in the wide, fluffy collar. 

It’s the same coat Anatole was supposed to wrap Natasha in. 

He tries to shrug out of it, but Dolokhov holds him in place from behind, his arms wrapping around Anatole’s shoulders. 

Anatole looks up – the sky is dark and cloudy. Snow falls in heaps, the snowflakes large and wet. He’s tense and can’t relax. It feels like the world is ending and he’s not quite sure why. Because he’s without her? Because Fedya might leave him now? Because…what? He never has answers – that was always Dolokhov’s job. 

Dolokhov buries his face in Anatole’s hair. It’s full of snowflakes. “Come inside.” 

“I need air.”

“You need to get warm. I swear to God, man, I can’t leave you for ten minutes without you getting into trouble.”

Anatole flinches and Dolokhov freezes. After a moment, he lets out a long breath, almost a sigh. 

He won’t apologize. Not after what Anatole did. But he does reach with one hand to hold Anatole’s hair out of the way so that he can kiss the cool skin at the back of his neck. Softly, tenderly. Passion is the last thing either of them needs tonight. 

“I’m sorry,” Anatole admits after a few moments, as Dolokhov continues to kiss his neck. He’s shivering and Dolokhov isn’t sure if it’s from the kissing, the cold, or coming down from adrenaline. “I love you.” 

*~*

Anatole is half-way to delirium, but he tries to hold on as much as he can. Dolokhov can tell. 

The fever and the pain will take him before morning. So the doctors say. Dolokhov says, damn the doctors. They’ve been through – _not worse, never worse –_ a lot of ridiculous situations. The war isn’t going to separate them. 

Dolokhov won’t let it. 

But Anatole can’t focus on anything. Nor can he sleep. Dolokhov’s arm around him seems to offer some comfort, but it’s marginal. “Fight it, Toto,” Dolokhov says softly, and remembers them as children, him encouraging Anatole to fight his fear of thunderstorms. (Which involved locking Anatole out in the rain. Which ended with Anatole catching cold, and Dolokhov refusing to leave his side for three days and seriously reconsidering his methods.) _Fight it, Toto._

He’s tired, too. Everyone is. There has been nothing but battle behind them and there will be nothing but battle ahead. He lets his forehead drop against Anatole’s shoulder. He can hear Anatole’s breathing – it stutters and holts. 

Dolokhov leans forward and presses his lips just under Anatole’s chin, to the side of his neck. It’s barely a kiss. More touch, a grounding pressure. 

Anatole shits just barely toward him, a move of his shoulder, a tilt of the head. _Fight it, Tota._

 __“I love you,” Anatole says.

Dolokhov looks up with _I love you, too_ on his lips, but Anatole has already lost consciousness. 

*~*

It only ever happened thrice.


End file.
